Kids are more than numbers

I am one of 213,000 children in the state living in poverty, which means I am one of two children in a family with two adults with combined annual income below $23,283.

Of course, there are as many levels of poverty as there are gradations between $23,283 and zero dollars. I am, for example, one of 101,000 Massachusetts kids living in extreme poverty, defined as a family of four with a yearly income of $11,641 or less.

Homelessness stalks me and it is difficult to elude it, if you are one of the 70,000 kids whose homes went into foreclosure in 2007; if you are a member of the 316,000 low-income Massachusetts families that spent more than 30 percent of their income on housing costs; if you are one the 414,000 children living in families where no parent has full-time, year-round employment; or even worse, if you are one of 84,000 Massachusetts kids living in a low-income household in which no adults work.

In 2012, a family of two making $33,000 a year or less was considered low income. A family of four was considered low income if it made $50,000 a year or less.

Hunger is my companion, because I am one of 207,000 living in a household in which, for the previous 12 months, there was an uncertainty or an inability to acquire enough food for all household members because of insufficient money or other resources.

I am a Massachusetts kid getting by because I am in one of the 49,673 families that receive transitional aid to families with dependent children, and because I am one of the 627,611 individuals participating in the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program.

I am getting by, but my normal is not easily borne.

I am one in 20,213 kids in the state who are missing, neglected, and physically, emotionally and sexually abused. I am one in 244,000 children who have one or more emotional, behavioral or developmental conditions. I am one 44,000 who abused alcohol or drugs in the past year. I am one in 663 residing in juvenile detention and correctional facilities (2010).

I am a Massachusetts child, one of the ones that nobody knows until we are gone, like 5-year-old Jeremiah Oliver, who hasn't been seen since September, although his disappearance wasn't reported to authorities until Dec 2.

Now that he is gone the state is taking account. It fired three employees — the social worker who should have been watching out for Jeremiah and two supervisors.

But I wonder whether this uproar at the Department of Children and Families is really out of concerns for kids like me and Jeremiah, or whether it's out of concern for the welfare of those with the big jobs and big paychecks who only know us as numbers on their balance sheets?

Now that Jeremiah is gone, they tell us he had been living in an abusive home; that his two siblings had been savagely beaten by a friend of their mother's, who we are told did nothing to prevent the abuse.

Jeremiah's siblings are now wards of the state, two of over 7,000 that are in foster care, and two of about 40,000 kids receiving services through the DCF.

Jeremiah was like me, a number, a statistic, but now that he is gone he has a name, just like how a penny is inconsequential until it impacts the balance sheet.

I am a Massachusetts kid. I am just a number, a statistic on the state balance sheet, but I have a name and wish you would get to know it before I am gone.

(The data used for this column was complied by Kids Count Data Center for the year 2012.)